on the in-flight,
Were ROCKED! By the impact of the traitorous fowl.
“Hitler’s beard!” cried he, bronzed chest rippling,
“’Tis the long-awaited death of Skree I now sense,
and she means to drag us to Hades with her!”
So broad grew his chest with a mournful keen
That his tie ripped free of his swelling neck,
His coat opened in a jagged V, buttons springing forth
To rebound off the faces of swooning crew.
“To arms” cried he, “To Teterboro! To victory!”
Spit flew from his mouth, caught in his drooping mustaches
And reflected a wan sun. He cried out for the Tower.
“Oh great Sully,” came the reply “whose name does not sully,
but exalts all ears it deigns to enter, we on the ground,
Our pants heavy and sopping with the poop and pee of fear,
Can do little but move planes around, so feeble are we.”
Dashing the radio to the ground, Sully grimaced,
The silence of his crippled plane filled by the triumphant flute
Blowing as if to wake the dead in his Mensa-level brain.
“So it must be,” said he, “and so shall it be.
We seek refuge with Poseidon.” All in earshot gaped,
Aghast at the godlike moxy of this mortal man,
And some doubtless recalled the whispered legends of his birth,
The tales of his father’s cuckolding on the prong of the Sea god.
Would Sully, half-son of the watery god, be welcomed?
“Brace for impact,” was all he said.
Great Poseidon! Shaper of the world, both man and woman,
Help me tell now of Sully’s entrance into you
How that great steel length swooped low
As if to plow you something proper,
Then glided into your watery cooch
Never grazing a wing nor disturbing the ferrymen
That clung about your lips to stare in fear and wonder
At the life-giving consummation of Father and Son.
The beleaguered plane rocked and shuddered,
Readying to spill its human seed upon the deep.
“And so,” breathed Sully, biceps putting tree trunks to shame,
“As you had your way with my mother,
So have I had my way with thee.”
And he left the cockpit then, so aptly named,
Trailing a palpable grace and strength
No ethics book could hope to contain.
The sun, O Muse, that hung then in the rosy sky
Set on the death of Skree, fowl most foul,
And on the reunion of Sully and his godhood,
On a Hero who strides among us,
Humbly, with balls the size of giant balls.
Sorry Chesley, but until the Treasury Department approves my design for the zillion-dollar “Sullybuck,” this’ll have to do you. I’d recommend printing it out and framing it above your mantelpiece, or maybe getting someone to crochet it into a scarf.
Here’s hoping you pilot every plane I ever fly in.
When not carrying on the proud traditions of our forebears, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!
Recommended For Your Pleasure